


Growing Gold

by Whiskey Wit (whiskeywit)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1958 - 1965, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Slow Burn, Smut, Time Skips, feel good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9982127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywit/pseuds/Whiskey%20Wit
Summary: John and Paul touching, in little glimpses over the years... With a gratituous helping of smut.





	

 

**1958.**

 

John can play the guitar. He can see where Paul puts his fingers, he has a little notebook where he jots down the chords he knows and takes it with him wherever he goes like it's his little bible, he spends hours figuring out what sounds best. The point is, he _knows_ how it works.

It's not enough to keep him from asking Paul to show him.

Paul sits down next to him, touching at their hips. He explains it to John and John can see Paul's right hand moving in the air before he gently pushes John's fingers into the right position.

John can see how malleable his own hand has become, the ease with which Paul moves them after double-checking and realising his mistake. More than that, he knows Paul can hear the way his breathing has sped up, that he must notice the flush creeping up John's face from this close.

Paul stares at him for a long moment. Then he lets go of John's fingers, tuts at him.

“You didn't need me to show that, did ya?” John shrugs, smirks as wide as he can. “Git.”

Paul's hand reappears—now on John's waist, finger brushing against the exposed skin under his shirt. His heart stammers, skips a beat.

Then Paul's touch is gone, and his side is cool and empty again.

 

 

 

**1961.**

 

Paris didn't bring John what he hoped for. He's decided to put his feelings in the metaphorical fridge—or possibly Alaska—it's been long enough.

The week after he's at Paul's house, playing the guitar in the sitting room. His fingers slip and John cringes at the bum note, hoping Paul didn't hear it in the kitchen, where he's waiting for the kettle to heat.

Paul comes in a minute later, carrying two steaming cuppas that he puts on the table, taking care to not put them on the lyrics they're working on. “That soppy playing I heard?”

John shrugs as he reaches for the tea. Paul hums and shakes his head, already finding his place besides John.

They haven't done this in a long time. John used to throw Paul a bone—lots of them, until he figured there was no use in it. He figures that if Paul has realised how John feels about him—and he must have, by now—he would have done something about it long ago. This is the first time Paul's initiated it.

It's the same old, anyway. Paul's gentle but sure touch that sets John's cheeks aflame, his leg pressing in just a little harder than necessary, his heart jumping and lunging in his chest all the time.

Then Paul stares at him, and for a moment John thinks,  _this is it_ . He can smell milk on Paul's breath, can feel their lips almost-touch.

When Paul doesn't, then, when his eyes flicker away and breaks the mood with that, John does all he can to not mutter  _twat_ under his breath.

There's nothing he can do to reel Paul back in, though. He's left alone again, and he's not sure what it means that Paul appeared to _want_ but-- “Do you want a bevy?” Paul asks, up and across the room, to his Da's liquor cabinet.

John nods. Booze's the word.

 

 

 

**1963.**

 

He's smoking a ciggie in the frigid air outside the recording studio.

John knows he shouldn't—his cold has been getting progressively worse over the day, even if his voice's still holding up all right. He's starting to run a fever, sweating in the cool February air even if he hasn't got his coat on. It's sweltering inside; nothing heats up a room like four young men playing rock 'n' roll for twelve hours straight.

George and Ringo are eating chips inside, and John's not surprised when he hears the door creak to signal Paul coming out to join him—no coat either.

He steals John's ciggie, then drapes himself across John's back. It's a bit of a giggle first, Paul trying to get a piggy back ride out of John until he realises that John's not feeling his best. Then he calms down, still pressed against John and stroking his hand up and down his arm as though he's trying to warm him—like John's a bird and in need of that.

The game Paul's playing ticks him off. It's been going on for years now—more lately, and more often coming from Paul even if he never dares to take the final step, darting back before John gets what he wants, but not before making him want Paul  _more_ . 

The fever makes him care less and he's still feeling the energy of their music, and it's easy enough to turn around and push Paul up against the wall. He keeps him there, leg between Paul's hip and feeling his cock hard—the music must have done that, or the way he was grinding up John's back before.

He leans in, mashing their lips together.  
  
Paul kisses back eagerly, his hand coming 'round to hold the back of John's head while the other finds that spot on his hip that Paul's always going for, sending jolts of electricity through John's body that makes him feel like he's rock 'n' roll come to life.

The door squeals again and they jump apart. His sudden intake of breath launches John into a coughing fit, and by the time Geo can see them, Paul is patting his back and telling him good-naturedly, “You gotta lay off the fresh air when yer ill, I told ya that. It's no good for rock stars in spe.”

Geo rolls their eyes at them and leans against the wall with his eyes closed, unaware of what he interrupted just now as he tries to cool down a bit too before they are called back.

-

The next day, after he's slept off most of the cold and has had tea to soothe his throat, John finds himself in front of Paul's hotel room.

“Is there anyone else in here?” he asks as he steps in, and Paul shakes his head.

That makes it easy for John to perform a repeat performance of yesterday—pushing Paul up against the door he's just closed and grinding their hips together. They're not kissing yet, but Paul's holding on to him and his eyes are wide and shocked but not disproving.

“Do you want this?” John mutters as he starts to lean in, and Paul grunts. “Do you?”

“Bloody hell—John,” Paul grumbles, and then he finally gives in, “yes, yes, _yeah_.”

They're kissing for God knows how long. Paul's soft, and hard, and definitely knows what he's doing—he's licking into John's mouth, biting on his lip and moaning quietly whenever does the same. Paul twists them around at some point, leaning over John with his arm bracketed on the wall. This time when he goes for John's bare skin, John breaks the kiss and tells him, “Take off my shirt.”

Paul wastes no time, hands skimming over John's skin as John raises his arms to make it easier. The shirt's dumped on the floor, and John makes sure that Macca's shirt follows.

Then they're pressed together again, and it's better like this—even if it's nothing like John thought it would be. What he thought was more basic, abstract and linear and what he has now is hot skin that's undeniably real, firmly grounding him in the moment. There's no past, for the time being, and the only future that he can see is immediate and hot like the sun; quite as blinding, too.

He fumbles with Paul's trousers while Paul sucks a lovebite into the skin over his clavicle, lapping in between the sharp nip of teeth that makes his dick twitch and ache, trapped in fabric. He can feel his frustrations grow, rising to the surface slowly as he starts to overthink, overheat.

“Fuck,” he mutters and finally Paul catches on—takes them down himself, another barrier gone. It's nothing John hasn't seen before, but he hasn't _touched_ and that is the difference that matters, isn't it?

And then Paul pulls down John's trousers, leaving him in his skivvies, dick tenting the white fabric. He can see Paul shiver, goosebumps rising to his skin, and then Paul says, “Maybe the bed would be more comfy, yeah?”

John nods. He follows Paul in the silence that follows and Paul has him lay down on his back. The fever has been taken out of their movements; now they're taking their time. Paul crouches over him, his cock brushing against John's belly as he settles down—John's skivvies are the last barrier and John's grateful for them when Paul shifts, their dicks touching together and the rush of pleasure sends John's hips pushing up.

He's acutely aware of all the points where their bodies are touching—Paul's toes cold against his legs, their thighs hot and their bellies a little softer than anywhere else. Paul has braced himself over John, his arms pressing dents into the mattress as he starts to roll his hips down.

It feels amazing, fantastic; superior to all other experiences in life. John groans and wraps his arms around Paul's back, because he wants to be close and kiss and Paul obeys smoothly, never losing his delicious rhythm.

He could cum like this, quite easily, but that would mean dissatisfaction in one department. “Macca,” he mutters into Paul's mouth, “fuck, lemme take off me skivvies.” Paul's giggle reverberates through John's body but he pushes himself off John and to the side.

He watches John get up as he starts to wank off, hand closed around his cock in a loose fist. It makes John stop dead after he's dropped his underwear to the floor, because _fuck_. It's a bloody sight to behold, that is.

Paul observes John looking and slowly spreads his legs wider, moving his other hand down to cup his balls and roll them against his body, moaning as his eyes roll back into his head. And John wants to keep looking—but he thinks, suspects that he has all the time for that later and with Paul splayed out like this he has to give in to temptation.

And with that, John lies down. Paul's hand bumps against his dick and then his fingers fold him in too, pressing their erections together as John shivers.

“Move,” Paul whispers hotly into his ear, and John nods, does what he's told.

It doesn't take long then, because truth is better than fiction and there's no denying the way he feels now.

“I love you,” he groans, and then he cums.

“You sod,” Paul laughs.

John barely hears it over the rush of blood in his ears.

 

 

**1965.  
  
**

“Do you need some help with that?” Paul asks as he comes to stand behind John, peering over his shoulder to look at John's hands on the piano.

“That depends on whether we're alone,” John smirks at him.

Paul shakes his head, but he sits down next to John anyway. The weight of his thigh against John's is familiar—he's chewing peppermint gum, touches John's hip as he always does when they sit together, and looks at the lyrics John's got on paper.

“Looks nice,” he says.

It's quiet for a moment while John lets him look at the lyrics, the _in my life, I love you more_ that he knows Paul understands the true meaning of, and then he feels Paul's fingers close around his own for just a moment.

“I love you too.”

 

 


End file.
